The Summer Sings
by StoneWingedAngel
Summary: Sequel to The King Weeps. After bringing Thranduil back from the brink after the death of his son, Tauriel knows that healing will be long and difficult road - one that they must take together.
1. Winter

**This the sequel to The King Weeps – I recommend that you read that story before this one, or it might not make a great deal of sense. If you don't want to read the previous fic, I've posted a brief summary of it at the bottom of this chapter.**

**Warnings: Spoilers for The Hobbit. **

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><p>Tauriel had been pacing for ten minutes, breathing tightly and clenching her hands, when she finally relented and turned back towards Thranduil's chambers. She was going at such a speed, paying no heed to her surroundings, that she ran into Elrond on the stairs, almost upsetting a basket from his hands. She steadied in time to catch a small cake that, precariously balanced, had toppled from the wicker rim.<p>

"For the king?" she murmured, replacing it, speaking only because she could not bear to stand in silence.

Elrond readjusted the basket. "He refused most of it, but yes." He frowned. "You should not have left him alone."

"I could not bear witness to his tears," she said. "He did not want me there."

"It seems, he wants no-one with him."

"He sent you away?"

Elrond nodded. "He is as stubborn as he is proud. I was doing no good by remaining at his side."

To her surprise, Elrond sat himself on one of the steps and rested his chin on his hand, so casually that Tauriel was taken aback. She stood awkwardly for a moment, unsure what to do. In the end, she joined him. The day had been a strange one.

"You are fatigued from your journey," she murmured. "I am sorry you have not had time to rest."

Elrond shook his head. "That is not what troubles me."

"What, then?"

"After Thranduil lost his wife, he focused his attention on two things; his son, and his work. Now he has lost his son, how do you suppose he will curb his grief?"

"With his work." Tauriel would not have needed Elrond to give the answer; she knew her king well enough to guess.

"He will drive himself to distraction if he is not stopped." Elrond gave her a long, hard look. "I will not be able to remain here. There is little I can do to change his mind, and I have affairs of my own that are of grave importance. I must leave by nightfall. You will have to keep him under your eye."

"If he allows it."

"He will. He is fond of you. Give him the afternoon alone, but go to him at dusk. The first night will be the hardest."

"You trust me. Why?"

"Because you wrote to me, when others would not."

Tauriel inclined her head, pressing her lips firmly together; yes, she had written to him, and little good it had done her, at least in the eyes of the Council. She had worked hard to be Captain, and now, when she considered what she was supposed to do, stripped of her position, she found herself adrift. Follow orders, she supposed. It would be hard to once again hold her tongue around the other soldiers.

It did not matter, she told herself. She had succeeded in getting Thranduil to wake, and that was all that was important.

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><p>Thranduil staggered to his feet as soon as Elrond left him, pushing up from the drawer he'd been slumped over and slamming it shut, blocking the sight of Legolas's painting. He needed to leave the room – he had wept so long that he could barely breathe, and he had no desire to suffocate within the confines of his own chamber. He had been sitting so long that his spine had grown accustomed to the position. Moving was painful, and he needed no more pain now. He needed occupation.<p>

He changed his robes. He brushed his hair. He gently pushed at the base of the one eye that could still produce tears until it was a little less red. All his life he had been forced to look the picture of calm and collection. This was no different.

There were no guards posted outside the door, and Thranduil took the less-traversed passages to his throne, tracing the paths automatically and focusing every attention on pushing away the thoughts and memories of his son. It was an effort that exhausted him, but that did not matter. Little mattered, now, except his kingdom.

There was no-one sitting upon the throne – part of him had almost expected there would be, after so long. The seat was dusty, and he brushed it with his sleeve before sitting, more out of habit than anything else. Dust was a very small thing, really. The crown was resting where he had left it, and a cloud of silver particles rose from it as he placed it on his head. It was heavier than he remembered, but the smell of fresh branches and berries was one he found comforting.

He would go into the forest soon. It would be difficult, alone – he had not gone alone for years. He would find the spot Legolas had climbed his first tree.

Thranduil called a guard to him, ignoring the look of surprise apparent on their face as they saw that their king was not only back, but sitting on his throne as if nothing had changed.

"Tell the Captain of the Guard that I would see her tomorrow morning," he said, motioning a hand, keeping the gesture deliberately lazy to hide his trembling fingers. Getting Tauriel to bring him up to date on all matters would be a welcome distraction, though one he could not bear this night. Just walking to his throne had been painful, and once he was sure that the guard would spread the news of his emergence from his chambers, he would return to them. "That will be all."

The guard only gawked at him. Thranduil was about to snap something about it being rude to stare, until he finally received a small bow and the words, "My Lord, there is currently no Captain of the Guard."

The throne suddenly felt very warm beneath his fingertips. Much as he wanted to, Thranduil resisted the urge to lean forwards. "What do you mean?"

"My Lord, she was demoted."

"Explain yourself plainly, or cease to speak," Thranduil snapped. "I will not abide receiving scraps of information as if you are a series of letters I must reply to."

The guard snapped to attention and told him all so quickly that Thranduil almost wished he would slow down. A battle. Many dead. Bard, a common bargeman, a slayer of dragons and working alongside the Master of Laketown. Thorin, Bolg and Azog slain; the orcs scattered, Dáin King under the Mountain. The facts came at such a rate he could barely breathe for forcing his tired mind to process them, but force himself he did.

"And Tauriel led our kin at the Battle of the Five Armies herself?"

"Yes, my Lord. Bard led the men, and Dáin the dwarves. The alliance was a hasty but sound one, though the help of the eagles was sorely needed by the end."

"Nothing was wrong with the attack? No unnecessary casualties, or…cowardly behaviour?"

"No, my Lord."

"Tell me, then, why Tauriel is no longer Captain of the Guard, if her conduct was as good as you suggest?"

The guard faltered; Thranduil saw his eyes flicker left to right before coming back to focus stubbornly on the rumpled hem of his robe. "We are not supposed to ask, my Lord."

"And yet, you have your suspicions, and you will tell me them."

"I do not know the full truth of-"

"You will tell me them."

The guard shifted nervously. "I only know that it happened soon after Elrond arrived at our borders. Many feel the two events are connected, though the details are uncertain; that she must have overstepped her place in inviting him here."

That much didn't surprise Thranduil; he had made efforts in the past to keep the Council and Tauriel as far apart as possible. They were too reserved, and she too fierce, to make a good partnership. "And my absence?" Thranduil said, mind racing. "What has been said of that?"

"Only that you were grieving, and could not leave your rooms."

Thranduil was certain that was not all, but he had no time to rend the truth out of the guard now. "Give the Captain of the Guard the message."

"My Lord, there is no-"

"I said, give her the message. You know who I mean."

The guard bowed so hastily that he dropped his helmet and had to scramble to pick it up before rushing down the staircase. Thranduil leaned back in the throne and rested his head against it, trying not to feel the ache at the base of his neck. He had slept for weeks, and yet remained exhausted.

That Tauriel had disobeyed council orders by sending for Elrond was obvious; as to why they would be so reluctant for him to be reached in first place…well, the Council had never been one to come to hasty decisions, and Tauriel, brilliant in her own ways, was occasionally impulsive beyond her place.

But her impulse had caused no harm, and it may have done some good, and he would not have her removed from Captaincy. Though he would not have said it out loud, he needed her. Much had changed in a short space of time, and he could rely on her to be both honest and helpful when others were not. She had also known the true nature of his condition over the past weeks, and the thought of not having to pretend to have been merely selfishly grieving, as he would have to around others, was one that filled him with dull relief.

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><p>"Remember that his chief emotion will still be grief," Elrond murmured. "He will try and cover it with anything else he can bring to the surface. He may try and make you angry, or offend you, so you will leave. You must not let him rile you."<p>

For a moment, Tauriel wanted to shout that she, too, was grieving and that no-one except, perhaps, when she was in Laketown and Bard had talked to her by the fireside, had allowed her to express any manner of feeling. The words hovered sourly on her tongue, but then she pushed them down. She had had weeks to grieve, but for Thranduil, it would still be fresh. Legolas had only been her friend, and Thranduil had lost his son.

Thinking as such did not make her feelings any less, but it allowed her to choke back her words and nod at Elrond, who was already saddling his horse. She did not want him to leave, but she had no power to make him stay. She felt adrift. If she had been Captain of the Guard, she would have gone and inspected the troops.

Perhaps she should patrol; the feel of her knife would help to orientate her. Of course, she would have to ask permission of whoever was now Captain. She hoped it was someone who would not further humiliate her.

Elrond's horse had vanished by the time she'd steeled herself to go, but before she could get halfway to the guard's quarters there was a shout of "Captain!" behind her. She hesitated, remembered that was no longer her position, and carried on walking.

"Captain!"

Footsteps rang out, and then someone plucked at her sleeve. Tauriel turned with a growl. "I don't know where you have been these past days, but I am no longer Captain of the Guard."

"Captain-"

"I am not your Captain!" To speak the words made her throat sting, but she spoke them all the same.

"The king insists that you are."

Tauriel felt her mouth slide open. "What?"

"He said to give you a message – that he wishes to see you tomorrow morning."

"That is all?"

The guard nodded, bowed, and hurried off. Tauriel stood in the corridor, torchlight forming diamonds in the corners of her eyes and the winter wind whipping past her cheeks. To know what she had worked so hard for, for so long, was no longer lost to her made her stomach swell with hope.

She was halfway towards Thranduil's chambers before she realised where she was going. When she did, she didn't slow her pace.

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><p>The darkness creeping into the room set Thranduil on edge, and the silence, far from soothing, only made his ears ring.<p>

Elrond had pressed on him the need for rest, so he tried to sleep, but as soon as he closed his eyes he had a sudden vision of agonising brightness and clanging bells, and Legolas calling his name, and he snapped upright again, gasping.

There wasn't enough to distract him; he wasn't tired enough to sleep without dreaming, so he would not sleep at all. He got to his feet and paced the room, and the images trickled away from him until he could remember nothing, except that he was afraid of the inside of his own head.

He walked until his heart was beating at a normal rate, then went to the window. The lights in the forest looked like eyes, and he pulled the curtain shut with a growl. It threw dust into his face and plunged the room into the darkness. He had a terrible feeling of being watched, hands shaking until he could barely light the candle on the desk. Even when it flared, the inside of his mouth remained dry. His head was spinning.

A distraction; there had to be one in the room. His eyes flicked to the bottom drawer, which he kicked to ensure it was firmly shut; he knew what was in there, and he would not allow himself to look.

Thranduil's eye fell on the top drawer, which he eased open. Inside were papers and messages, thrown in haphazardly, that had been building steadily over the last few months. Hastily, he pulled them out, intentionally dropping them on the floor in the hope that it would take longer to sort them. The longer the better. He got in a rhythm; sort, fold, sort, fold. He arranged them into five different piles, and then – the candle was still burning strong – decided that he really should be more specific, and reordered them again into seven, and then ten, categories. When he couldn't fool himself any longer, he put them back in the drawer, opened the next one, and began writing letters. He was always behind writing messages and instructions for the minor issues around Greenwood. He would make more effort from now on.

He wrote until his fingers were cramping and his face was spattered with ink. He couldn't stop. He made bargains and challenges for himself; could he hold his breath for an entire paragraph? A page? Every failure didn't matter, because he would make more deals, layering them one on top of the other until his head was pounding and his vision blurring with tears.

When the knock came at the door, it startled him so much that he jumped in his seat, and the pen clattered to the floor, spraying ink across his robes. Trembling, he got to his feet. "Hello?"

"My Lord?"

Thranduil's shoulders relaxed. "Yes. Come in."

Tauriel stopped when her eyes came to rest on him – Thranduil had no idea how he looked, but he was willing to bet that it was not his best – and then travelled to the floor, where the pen was still rocking amidst its own ink river.

"Elrond said you were to rest."

Thranduil made an effort to draw himself to full height. "I had some…things to attend to."

Tauriel was standing very still; that wasn't usual for her. She often paced or fidgeted.

It took Thranduil a moment to realise she was angry.

"I cannot sleep." The words left him before he wanted them to, and once he'd started speaking, he found it impossible to stop. "The inside of my head is like a candle that will not go out."

"You look exhausted."

"I am." The confession made his head heavy, and he dropped back into his chair with a thud, resting one elbow on the desk and pressing a fingernail into his eyebrow until the pain focused his hazy thoughts. "I…Legolas used to play cards with me, if I could not sleep. He was good to me. He was so, so…" His chest hitched, but his eyes stayed dry. "It isn't fair."

Tauriel did not argue with him. She did not pity him, or grow annoyed, or tell him that he was a fool. She went to the corner of the room, found a chair, and sat across from him, almost as if he had invited her. The presumption made him want to smile.

"Where are these cards?"

Thranduil blinked, and stared at her, but she did not repeat the question, did nothing, until he reached for the windowsill and drew them out of the corner, scattering more dust, and handed them to her. She tipped them onto her palm and began to shuffle.

"You should know," she murmured, dealing them into two piles – Thranduil had no idea what they were going to play, but he did not ask. "Bolg fought Legolas before the dragon attacked, and he was injured. When it came to the final battle, I thought that if I could kill Bolg, it would make things right." Her voice didn't waver; there was no hesitation, not a trace of anything but determination. "I helped to kill Bolg. It did not aid Legolas."

"Did it aid you?"

She paused, with a card half-placed on her pile. "It prevented the Orcs from regrouping. That was all."

There was a fresh scar on her hand Thranduil had not seen before. He did not ask her where she got it.

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><p>The light of the room cast a shadow against Thranduil's face, and Tauriel could see how hollow it had become, how cracked his lips were. Every time he swallowed, she saw his throat bob; saw how his neck showed weight-loss, the skin baggy and slightly loose. She had not yet gathered the courage to ask him what he had done to re-promote her; when she first entered the room, seen him working, she had been furious that Elrond's prediction had come true so soon, and she hadn't dared speak of it.<p>

Now still didn't seem the right moment. She had won four out of five hands – Thranduil was either distracted or a terrible player – and her mouth kept opening every time she reshuffled and dealt, but she always closed it by the time the cards were in place.

She won another hand, dealt another, lost two, won the next. The candle crackled and spat; the shadows in the room were total and the winter wind beating on the window, but Thranduil showed no signs of wanting to retire, so she kept playing. She was not tired, physically. Their silence was strange, but not uncomfortable.

"Someone called me Captain, earlier," she said eventually, before she could convince herself it was a bad idea. She laid a card down, and Thranduil took it up without hesitation. "He would not be convinced that the fact was otherwise."

"Then you must go about your duties as Captain of the Guard." Thranduil's voice was very even. "If anyone questions you, even if they are the Council itself, you are to refer them to me."

"My Lord…"

"Did you deserve demotion?"

Tauriel hesitated for a moment, but she had never been falsely modest. She could not afford to be. "No."

"Then we have no issue, do we?"

"No." And then. "Thank you."

The surprise on his face made her want to smile. The next moment, he had laid his cards on the table. "My hand, I think."

"I was distracted."

Thranduil scooped the cards up and offered them to her to shuffle. "That does not change the fact that it was my hand."

Tauriel laughed. Thranduil did not but, when the torch had almost gone out, he announced that he would like to retire to bed. Tauriel had no idea whether he intended to sleep, but it was a start.

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><p><strong>Thanks for reading, feedback welcome!<strong>

**To be continued.**

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><p><strong>The King Weeps Summary:<strong>

**Legolas is killed by Smaug in Laketown, and Tauriel gives Thranduil the news. He reacts badly and, to prevent his heart breaking, forces himself into a trance, locking himself inside his own head where he suffers from hallucinations about the death of his wife and Legolas's childhood. Tauriel brings an army to Laketown in the hope of getting gold from Thorin for the people to rebuild their homes. The battle of the five armies commences and Thorin, Fili and Kili are killed, though Bard receives a portion of treasure from Dáin, Thorin's cousin, who takes over the rule of Erebor. Tauriel receives no praise for her work from Thranduil's council, and in desperation writes to Elrond to see if he can break the trance. This angers the council, who demote her. Tauriel takes matters into her own hands and conspires with Elrond to rouse Thranduil by pretending that she is in danger for treason. Thranduil wakes to find it is a trick, and resigns himself to grief, beginning to cry only after Elrond and Tauriel have left the room. **


	2. Spring

"Did Legolas always beat you at cards?"

Spring was beginning to creep upon them, but Tauriel was still grateful for the candles flickering on the table as she shuffled. She'd always preferred the daytime to night.

Six out of the last eight hands had been hers and, and, as she laid the cards out for the ninth time, she had the sense that she would keep on winning. Thranduil was looking at her blankly, and she realised neither of them had spoken of Legolas for several weeks. They worked, and every evening they played cards until Thranduil decided he could sleep, and that had been the sum of their interaction. Tauriel was so often on patrol, curbing the spiders, which still bred faster than ever, that she had little time to think. But the evenings were different; with Thranduil so close, and his hair the same colour as Legolas's, it was almost impossible not to have the subject on her mind.

"Sometimes he let me win." Thranduil's tone was measured; his hands weren't quite trembling, but they didn't look steady either. "You do not. I can always tell."

Tauriel shrugged. "I see no point in it. You are not playing because you want to win."

Thranduil inclined his head, and laid a card on the table. "Was it painful for him, in the end?"

Tauriel blinked; though she knew exactly what he was asking, she wasn't sure she should answer. She had not allowed herself to dwell on that night for a long time, and she was far from sure whether it was a good idea to tell Thranduil what she'd seen.

Then again, she did not know how much he had already heard. Surely, he would be more at ease knowing the plain truth, rather than whispers and rumours.

"It was sudden," she said. "He rescued someone from the town, and it delayed him. By the time he reached the dock, the town was already ablaze, and when he got ready to jump into the lake…" She felt her stomach flex with panic, but forced the sensation away. "He'd been hurt; he stumbled. It was only a moment, but…it was enough for the dragon. I was not expecting it. I do not think he was either."

"It is never expected." Thranduil's mouth was pressed very small, and his hands were definitely shaking now, but his eyes were dry and he kept playing his cards with feverish vigour as he spoke. "When…when she…when she…I was so certain she was close behind. That I would be able to catch her." He snorted, and the sound chilled Tauriel to the bone. "You always, _always_, think that you can do something."

Tauriel reached out and adjusted the candle, casting the light further and resisting the urge to slam something over Thranduil's hands, to stop the awful trembling. "I know." Her breaths came lightly, but the candle still flickered. She wanted to tell him that he was not the only soldier; that she had seen Legolas, and others die. But he already knew that. She did not need to remind him. "I know."

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><p>Elrond had been right; Thranduil worked. And worked. And worked, until Tauriel was convinced that he could not possibly continue functioning. He always proved her wrong. He never stopped, except for their card games, and they were always late at night. He attended every council, used up quills and ink like there was a dangerous excess of them, and took his meals in his room.<p>

Tauriel made an effort to play cards as long as possible, but she had her own duties to attend to, and sometimes she was away, or in no state to join him. Those nights, she was certain he stayed up all night.

"You need to rest," she ventured one day when she reported to him in the throne room. "You are working too hard."

"I am the king," Thranduil murmured, picking up yet another sheaf of messages. "It is expected."

"Not to this extent."

Something flashed in his eyes, and she didn't push the matter further until the same evening, when she knocked on his chamber doors to find him with his fingertips pressed to the bridge of his nose and papers beginning to creep from the desk to the floor and the bed. There was a flask of wine at his left hand, but no sign of a meal, and she was sure he had not eaten.

"Is it urgent?" he murmured, shuffling papers and pressing his fingertips deeper into his skin. He looked very pale.

Tauriel blinked. "It is late. I thought…"

Thranduil's eyes flicked to the cards. "Not tonight." He scratched something out with his quill and reached for the wine, wincing as he swallowed. "I am busy."

So far, she had let the amount of work he was doing slide, because he had put aside the hour or so every evening they played together. Even if he did not sleep – and she knew there was no way of forcing that – he allowed his mind to rest, even for a short time.

"I must insist."

Thranduil snorted. "You insist?" He didn't even look up from the papers, drinking again as he wrote. "I am sure you have better things to do with your time."

Tauriel sighed, wondering if she should get angry, but decided there would be no benefit to it. "Please. You must rest."

"I cannot." At last, he raised his head. There was a red imprint on his cheek where his hand had been leaning against it.

"You can, if only you would let yourself."

She had not expected him to get angry, and was unprepared when he kicked the chair back with a clatter and got to his feet, unsteady and shaking – she wondered just how much he'd had to drink.

"Do not presume you know my mind, Tauriel, simply because we have spent time together. The only ones who truly knew me are both dead."

He was trying to intimidate her, trying to infuriate her so that she would leave him, but she wouldn't be tricked into it. Not when it was so against his own interests.

"I am not trying to be Legolas. Or your wife."

"Then do not tell me what to do as if you know what is best for me."

"You must allow yourself time to breathe, or the grief will catch up with you as soon as you cannot carry on."

Thranduil let out a hollow laugh. "I have carried on before, and I will do it again." He swept a hand across the room. "Leave me."

"No." There was no hesitation in her voice.

Thranduil's face turned to thunder, and he swept the inkpot to the floor with a crash, shattering it. "I said-"

"And I say, I will not!"

He advanced on her, but she did not flinch – even incensed, he had no heart in him to injure her, and they both knew it. When she made no sign of retreat, the knowledge seemed to hit him, and he span on his heel instead, seizing a quill and crushing it between his fingers until his knuckles were white.

"Why will you not leave?" he murmured, feverish and trembling. "Just…leave."

"I cannot."

"Why not?"  
>"Because you are not the only one who has lost someone!"<p>

It hit her, then, how little she had allowed herself to grieve for Legolas, and even less for Kili and the others; it had moved too fast, she had been too focused on waking Thranduil, and since then she had had her duties to the soldiers and to him, to try and stop him doing exactly what he was doing right now, and it wasn't fair, none of it was fair. She had tried so hard, and it was all coming to naught in her hands.

She was crying. She hadn't cried since the first night in Greenwood, after the battle.

"I have lost my son." Thranduil sank back into the chair, shoulders shaking and face grey, and stared at the tears rolling down her cheeks – she was sure his own were not far away, but he pressed a hand to his eyes, obscuring them. "I have lost my _son_."

"I am not trying to tell you that I can understand." Tauriel straightened, trying to ignore the ink speckled on her ankles. "But I lost a friend. And Greenwood lost a prince." She knew the comparisons were uneven, but she made them all the same, because he had to hear her out. "You are not alone."

"I told him that I would let no evil come to him after his mother died – that I would protect him."

"But you were not there." She hesitated a moment. "I was the one who led him to Laketown. I blame…I blamed myself." She breathed. "But I had to make peace with it, or I would have gone mad. If Legolas had lived, he would have been so _angry_, to see us fault ourselves. You especially. He loved you very much."

Thranduil raised his head; his palm was wet with tears. "I wanted to blame you, when you first gave me the news. I wanted to…I could have killed you, but I could not make myself believe he would have gone if he did not truly want to."

Tauriel found another chair and fell into it. "If you cannot blame me, then for all purposes you should not be able to blame yourself." She put a hand on his shoulder, surprised when he made no attempt to shrug her off. "You have not lost everyone who cares about you. The whole of Greenwood cares for you, even if you do not let them see how much you need them. There is Elrond, though you pushed him away. And myself."

Thranduil smirked. "You are as stubborn as he was."

"Yes," she said quietly, letting out a low laugh that she knew sounded false. It was the best she could do. Gently, she pulled the pile of paper and the wine well out of Thranduil's reach. "This will wait until tomorrow."

They sat in silence for a long while, breathing softly, until the dawn began to creep through the windows.

* * *

><p>Thranduil had put off going to the tree because he had forced himself to believe that his work was more important, but once Tauriel had put an end to that, the thought weighed on his mind. He should have gone a long time ago.<p>

He'd been sitting in a chair for at least three hours since darkness had fallen. Tauriel had not come to see him yet; most likely, she was still on patrol.

Perhaps going would give him some peace. Perhaps it would make things worse than ever.

He would go anyway. He owed Legolas that much.

Thranduil pulled on his robes over his sleepwear and made for the door, passing the guards without speaking; the last thing he wanted was for them to insist on accompanying him. He had his sword, and the trees had been quieter of late. On the path, he had little to fear.

The spring breeze played around his hair as he walked carefully down a set of carven steps, lifting his robe a little to avoid tripping and sending grey moths flapping into the air like puffs of smoke. Their wings and the wind were the only sounds. It was very peaceful.

Legolas had only been small the first time they'd gone this way, and had clung to Thranduil's robes as they walked, asking questions by the dozen and leaving no time for answers before he was talking about something else, asking about the moths and the branches and the leaves and the sunlight shining onto the path. Thranduil could hear the old conversations layered over each other, carried in the breeze. The path shivered and blurred, and he forced himself to come to a halt for a moment, breathing tightly.

The tree was not far. He composed himself, lifting his head and pressing the heel of his hand to his eye, sniffing. His nose and throat were stinging, but he moved on a few paces all the same, turning his head left to right as he sought out the right place.

He couldn't find it. He walked a few metres more until he knew he had gone too far, then retraced his steps. Nothing.

Of course; they had changed the paths since Legolas had been young – had it really been so long? – and the tree now lay further back, amongst the darker branches. He looked up, but could see no cobwebs. It did not smell bad, and there was no rotting bark. It was most likely secure. He knew the spot, and he would not be far from the path. He had no light to attract danger, and he was not planning on speaking, so there would be no sound.

No twigs cracked under his feet as he walked, though his robes made a soft rustle against the undergrowth. Ferns snagged at his fingertips, and he paused a moment, allowing drops of water to run into his palm and curve down his wrist. The moon cast little light, but the raindrop still reflected a small glow. He smiled.

The tree became visible a few feet ahead, still crooked, still with low hanging boughs – _try that one, Legolas, it is low enough to climb_. The branches had remained thick and sturdy through the years, and the new buds were already beginning to open, like green butterflies perched on every limb.

As Thranduil made his way forwards, something changed in the air.

Since he had lost the use of one eye Thranduil had become a good listener; he made up for his blind side by training his ears to pick up the smallest of sounds. It was simply a matter of continuing to pay attention on a less conscious level. Even if his mind was occupied with other things, he always knew when someone had entered a room, no matter how quietly they tried to do it.

There was no-one entering a room now, but there was a soft clicking from someway above him. Thranduil froze, reaching for his sword.

If he had not heard it coming, the spider would have dropped directly on top of him. As it was, he had time to throw himself forwards, ducking and rolling and coming up again, robes twisted around his legs, sword drawn. The spider hissed. Thranduil feinted left, then spun to the right and sliced neatly through two of its legs. Before it could rise and shriek at him, he'd stabbed it through the eye. It died quickly, and he did not waste time looking around to check if there were more – he listened.

Clicking to the left. Thranduil twisted, hindered by his robes, and stabbed three times in rapid succession before he'd even seen the spider. He pierced an eye, but not deeply enough to do anything more than anger the creature, which attempted to rise up and trap him between its legs. He dodged backwards, yanking his hair out of the range of its sticky bristles just in time to avoid having his neck broken. The spider was screaming, obscuring the other sounds, but he was certain he heard something shudder and thud behind him as he drove forward, gritting his teeth as he forced the sword back into its eye and further, until he was up to his elbow in black blood and the spider finally, finally, dropped dead. Thranduil jerked his sword free, breathing heavily, and turned to the source of the noise he knew he'd heard before, ready to go back into battle.

There was another dead spider a few feet away, but he had not killed it.

"Tauriel?"

He knew it was her because he recognised the knife buried to the hilt in the spider's eye, but he would have been able to guess even without that – if anyone were to follow him, it would be her, because she had no respect and he had not yet told her to get some.

She came out from the trees with her hair sloppily pushed into the collar of her tunic. "Some of the guards told me you had left as I was getting back. I said I would follow; I thought you would not want an entire procession."

"I would have managed." Thranduil knew it was most likely not a lie; the spider had still been some feet from him when it had died, and he had made sure not to irreversibly tangle his sword in the body of the other. Had he been attacked, he would have had time to redirect his assault.

"I know." There was a cut on Tauriel's cheek, thin but fresh, probably a nick from a branch. It was tiny, but it made him sad; in many ways she reminded him of Legolas, and now Legolas was gone, he could not bear to see her hurt.

"Thank you."

Tauriel inclined her head. "The tree?"

"Yes."

"Legolas brought me here, once, after patrol. He said you stood beneath him, in case he fell."

Thranduil had forgotten that until she'd told him, but the words brought the memory scurrying back. "I need not have worried; he did not fall."

"He never did."

_Except once_, Thranduil thought, glancing down at his dripping clothes and pulling a face. _It only needs to be once_.

Tauriel drew back into the trees a little – Thranduil knew she would not leave him, but he did not resent her for it. If he were to have anyone watch him, it would be her. She would not interfere.

It felt wrong to go to the tree covered in blood, so he carefully peeled off the robe and approached in his simple brown tunic and trousers. The breeze was mild, and dawn beginning to creep through the branches as he sat at the foot of the tree.

There were a hundred things he wanted to say, and thousands more running through his mind, but when he opened his mouth no sound came out. The need to apologise welled in his chest, stretching into his veins until his breathing was ragged and uneven, and the water soaking into his trousers felt terribly cold, but every time he tried to speak, he stopped himself.

He could hear Legolas in the tree above him, legs wrapped around a branch as he strained to reach a moth that had settled on the edge of a leaf. He could see himself standing below, ready to catch Legolas if he fell, head tipped back, smiling as he realised his son was going to grow up a wonderful climber.

In the end, he did not apologise. He only remembered.

* * *

><p><strong>Thanks for reading, feedback welcome!<strong>

**To be continued.**


	3. Summer

Returning to Laketown had been inevitable. Tauriel had always known that she could only spare Thranduil going to the place where his son had died for so long.

Summons came, not from the Master, but from Bard, in the form of an invitation for herself and the king, and to refuse would have been impolite. She could have gone alone, but Thranduil would not hear of it once he found out. His absence at the battle had been noticed; no harm would come from showing his face there.

So Tauriel took herself, Thranduil and a small guard to the lake, and Bard met her on the shore of the new town, which had been built fresh and gleaming away from the carcass of the dragon which still buried the old houses, and Legolas's ashes, beneath its jewelled bulk.

Bard's clothes were richer than she last remembered, his countenance less grim, and he reached for her hand and shook it with a firm but friendly grip. "It is good to see you again."

She smiled, pushing her bow behind her back. "It is good to see you too." She looked around. "I see you have made respectable time in your building."

"We would not have survived the winter if it weren't for your supplies," Bard said, leading her to the edge of the town. "That, and our battle, has not been forgotten. I thought it would be small repayment to invite you to come share in our new prosperity."

Laketown had flourished, Tauriel could see at a glance; people who had been homeless only six months ago were warm and fed, dressed less shabbily and laughing more often.

"The Master?" she asked, trying to prevent her lip curling at the thought of him, and failing.

"Gone."

"It was as you thought?"

Bard nodded. "I gave him a portion of the treasure, and he took his leave that same night. He was no longer truly a master; it was well he left before the people cried for his blood."

"Am I to address you as Master, now then, Bard?"

Bard flushed. "I would prefer you did not. The people have decided what they will, and I will guide them as best I can, but I am no true Master. A council and myself meet regularly to decide important matters; that is all."

"Soon, they will call you Lord of Dale."

"Please," Bard groaned, "let us not talk of such matters." He hesitated. "Does your king accompany you?"

Tauriel looked around at the small boat they had taken across the river and was surprised to see that, though the guards had alighted and were standing on the shore, leaning on bows and swords, there was no sign of Thranduil.

"He does," she murmured, frowning. "Though I am not certain of the prudence of the decision."

For a moment, Bard looked apologetic. "There was much talk, once the town was secure, as to why he had not come last time. I thought-"

"I know. For our alliance, it is the right decision. For him…" She sighed, remembering the way she had reached out to Legolas when he had stumbled on the jetty, and the dragon fire had spread around him like candlelight. "It is hard, to visit a place where a friend has died. When it is your son…"

Bard shuddered. "If anything were to happen to Bain. Or Sigrid, or Tilda… I have already lost a wife. It is a hard business, but the children kept me going."

"Thranduil's loyalty to Greenwood knows no limit. But it is a heavy weight for him to bear."

Bard shot her a sideways glance. "Hard for yourself, too, I imagine."

"Not as hard."

"We all feel our own pain the most acutely."

The sun was beginning to set, casting a red glow over the water, and still Thranduil did not come onto the deck.

"I will go fetch him," she said eventually, when the guards were starting to grow restless and she knew she could leave it no longer.

"I will give your guards board and refreshment," Bard replied. "When you are ready to join us, you will find my house at the centre of the town. Tonight, we will dine privately."

Tauriel nodded her thanks and made her way quickly to the boat. The gangplank creaked under her shoes, like a set of old bones.

Thranduil was seated on the set of steps that led to the deck with his face in his hands, breathing deeply. She knew he'd recognised her simply by her tread, because he did not bother to raise his eyes as he spoke.

"Did he die here? In this very place?"

Tauriel hesitated, wondering if she should lie, and then decided there was no point. "Some way off. They have moved the town as they rebuilt it – we need not look at the spot."

Thranduil drew a breath in through his nose, but got to his feet without her having to chivvy him. "Would you…go ahead?"

Tauriel squeezed her hand against the railings as she nodded. "I will."

"Thank you."

They made their way from the boat together.

* * *

><p>Thranduil lingered outside Bard's house, saying he needed to breathe the air a little longer, so Tauriel entered alone to find a table neatly set with three places, a set of steaming plates in the middle. Fish, rabbit, potatoes, what looked like a light broth, as well as a bowl of apples and a flask of wine.<p>

"It is only simple, I'm afraid," Bard said gruffly, pulling at his beard. "But the town is not yet on its feet, and there are others in more need."  
>"It looks wonderful," Tauriel replied, and she meant it – though Greenwood had larger amounts of food, none of it was much more delicate than what was on offer. She was hungry after the long journey, and the simple fare could only do Thranduil good. She frowned. "But where are your children? Are they ill?"<p>

Bard blinked. "No. They have already retired – I had them eat early, so we might not be disturbed." He hesitated. "It felt wrong, to have my own children on show when your king has…well. I can call them back down, if you wish."

"No. No; your decision is no doubt the right one."

Bard relaxed. Thranduil entered the house at last and shook hands with him, seating himself to Bard's right whilst Tauriel took the left. They ate slowly, talking all the time, though Bard's conversation, she couldn't help noticing, was carefully steered around any topic that might be sensitive. The candles burned cheerfully and the warm breeze filtered through the windows. The new thatch reminded Tauriel of home, and helped relax her. Thranduil started the evening with what she would call his state manner, stern and wooden, but after both he had Bard had helped themselves to the wine, and Bard had expressed a love for rabbit, which the king shared, the two of them were soon talking in great earnest, though it was of nothing important. Tauriel ate an apple or two, happy to sit back and listen to them, happy to see that, for the first time in weeks, Thranduil was smiling without looking like it pained him to do so.

* * *

><p>"It is impressive, is it not?" Thranduil murmured, looking up at the Mountain in the dawn light as he leaned over the balcony of Bard's house and felt the new wood flex beneath his arms. The Dwarves – though he would never have said it out loud – had made good time in repairing the damage after the battle, and Erebor shone in the sun like a flame.<p>

Tauriel glanced up from her bow. "It is. Though more so, from a height." She shot him a quick smile. "Follow me."

In an instant she had swung herself up onto the balcony railings and made the hop onto the roof.

Thranduil raised an eyebrow. "I am a king, Tauriel. It does not befit me to stand on rooftops." And yet, at the same time, he couldn't help thinking that she and Legolas had no doubt sat on branches or on rooftops hundreds of times whilst on patrol, watching the sun rise.

Tauriel shrugged, still smiling, and continued working on her bow, testing the string. Thranduil turned his back on her and tried to look away, but his spine itched – he had not climbed in a long time. He had forgotten how it felt.

It was not kingly, he reminded himself. It was not the proper thing to do.

He looked down at the streets. There was no-one yet about.

It was the work of a moment to gather his robes to his ankles, and another to jump onto the balcony. He hit the thatching with less grace than Tauriel had – he was out of practice – but she made no comment, and he sat on the roof with enough poise for four kings, though he felt himself laughing at his own pride.

Legolas would have chuckled at him, and made a comment, but Tauriel did not.

The sun shone on the Mountain, and he watched it with half-lidded eyes. "I do not think I have gone so many hours without working since winter."

"There will be work enough," Tauriel murmured, unstringing her bow at last and folding the twine into her pocket.

There was the sound of a door closing beneath them, and a second later one of Bard's girls – he did not know their names, as they had not been present at dinner the night before – came onto the balcony with a hairbrush in hand. She ran her hair through a couple of times, her eyes on the horizon. Thranduil could feel Tauriel looking at him, but he kept his gaze fixedly on the sky, and eventually she looked away. The girl went back inside, but the silence was gone. The town woke, and Thranduil stepped down from the roof before he could be seen.

Tauriel followed him. "You should talk to them," she said, leaning one elbow against the balcony. "Bard's children."

"I would rather not."

"They are good people."

"That, I do not doubt." He pressed his hands together. The happiness he had built for himself was fragile – he could feel it. "I am not yet ready."

"You will be."

"I know."

* * *

><p>The summer fell upon them like a cloak of sweet-smelling leaves, rolling the shores of the lake in a soft breeze that filled Thranduil with such a sense of delight that he would sometimes stand, if he thought no-one was watching, with his arms outstretched, breathing. He, Tauriel and Bard walked a lot in the fine weather, discussing matters.<p>

The town was beginning to re-establish itself, and Bard wanted to know if the forest would be resuming its trade with them. Thranduil had agreed instantly – so quickly that even Tauriel had seemed surprised – because he had seen little point in pretence. Bard needed his trade, and Thranduil needed his goods. With the old Master, a great political farce would have been gone through, a battle of wills and a beating of prices, but Bard was not the old Master, and Thranduil liked him – he was strong and fair, and he and Tauriel were almost like friends.

They now walked a little ahead of him, talking about fletching and bowstrings.

There was to be a gathering in the town later – a summer festival at which he was expected to be present – and Thranduil, even somewhat to his own surprise, found himself looking forward to it. He always felt more like himself in summer; Legolas had been born in June.

It was because he was thinking of Legolas, and of the past, when the child ran across their path – it was a yellow-haired child, dressed in greens and browns – that he spoke without thinking.

"Legol-"

He stopped himself before the word left his lips, but, as the child turned and he saw it was in fact a human girl, and not his own son, because his son's ashes were lying at the bottom of the lake. The grief hit him again, and he trembled where he stood. In the corner of his eye he saw Tauriel stop, poised on her toes.

The child blinked at him, saw the look on his face, and burst into tears.

In an instant, Thranduil forgot his grief, forgot Tauriel's gaze, and dropped into a crouch, reaching a hand towards the girl and putting it gently on her tiny shoulder. "Hush now. Come. Hush."

The girl only cried harder.

"I meant you no ill-will; only, you reminded me so much of my son."

With a hiccup, the girl lowered her hands from her wet face and looked at him. She had brown eyes, like snail shells in the morning dew. For an instant, he thought she would simply run off, but then she noticed the strands of his hair that had wound around his fingers as he reached for her, and touched one.

"You have pretty hair."

Thranduil felt his mouth twist as he smirked. "Why, thank you, my lady."

She laughed; it was a sound Thranduil realised he hadn't heard in a long time, and he swept her up into his arms without thinking about it.

"Come," he said, glancing at the setting sun. "I am sure that you are late for your supper."

"My sister was supposed to come for me, but she forgot."

"I see."

"She always forgets. She's very busy." The girl patted his hair again, and he let her, though it irritated him, because she was only young, and the look on Tauriel's face was price enough.

* * *

><p>Tauriel hadn't known what to expect when she'd heard Thranduil call Legolas's name, but she'd held out hope, and it had been fulfilled. Half a year ago, she had dragged Thranduil back to life with no hope that it would be anything but breath in his body. For weeks, she had been convinced the loss of Legolas would be too much for the both of them, but it had proved not to be the case. It had been…difficult. But not impossible.<p>

This was more than breath. It was life, as genuine as it could be with such a loss, and she felt a burst of joy so sudden she could have jumped in the air. She restrained herself, but paused by one of the purple thistles growing at the side of the path to pick one, simply so she had an excuse to inhale the air, feel it fill her like a moving river.

Thranduil, a little way behind with the child still clinging round his neck, caught up as she straightened, smiling. "I would have thought yellow would be more to your taste, Tauriel."

She shrugged. "They are all beautiful."

The girl was busy poking at the woodland flowers that had grown around the rim of Thranduil's crown since the seasons had changed, looking as if she was gearing herself to pluck one. Tauriel hastily handed her the purple thistle, hoping to avoid Thranduil giving a stern talk to someone else's daughter about personal property.

"Hurry!" Bard called from ahead of them, grinning. "For elves, you are walking with inordinate slowness."

If there hadn't been children present, Tauriel might have replied with a rude gesture. Instead, she called back.

"Patience is a virtue, Master Bard!"

Bard laughed, and vanished into the houses. Gently, Thranduil put the girl down and told her to run home, which she did, crushing the thistle half to death as she did so. The breeze, thick with the scent of grass and wood smoke, found Tauriel's hair and lifted it around her ears as they stood at the edges of the houses, breathing in the dusk air.

Neither of them spoke for some time, but neither of them needed to.

* * *

><p>"I should like to meet Bard's children, now, I think."<p>

The darkness was beginning to creep in, and the smell of wood smoke drifting from the centre of the town. Thranduil waited for Tauriel's reaction, and was not disappointed; she turned her head towards him, and he could have sworn she was smiling.

"Sigrid, Bain and Tilda. Tilda is the youngest, Sigrid the eldest. Bain is a fine warrior; Sigrid, too, would make a good sword-mistress, if given a chance."

"They will be at this feast, no doubt?"

"I can imagine no reason for them not to be. You will like them."

"I am sure I will."

There was the tramping of boots, and Thranduil turned to see Bard had appeared yet again at the edges of the houses, gesturing. "My patience, virtuous as it may be, is waning, Tauriel!"

Thranduil let out a bark of laughter, feeling one of the flowers on his crown, dislodged by their rough treatment, brushing against the tip of his ear.

"What is the hurry?" Tauriel called back – he could see her still smiling in the dim light.

"The people wish to sing, and have you join us – we have not your elven voices, but you may find it pleasing all the same."

Tauriel waved for Bard to return, and then turned to him. "Shall we go?"

Thranduil hesitated a moment, breathing in once more, listening to the breeze, before nodding. "Of course."

The sound of singing was already rising from amongst the houses.

* * *

><p><strong>There you have it! I'm hoping this did a passable job of resolving the last story; thanks to everyone who stuck this far.<strong>

**Feedback welcome!**

**The End. **


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